“Has Penelope called?” I ask Marleen every morning.
“No, she has not,” Marleen says.
I worry about Penelope. She is grown, living her own life, but the mind is a fickle thing, there’s only so much I’m able to process at one time, only so much weight a structure can hold before it collapses. I hope she is well.
The mind must take what it’s given and make the best of it, never losing hope that more lies ahead.